


Feminine and Not-So-Feminine Wiles

by vanillafluffy



Category: The Three Investigators | Die drei ??? - Various Authors, The Trixie Belden Mysteries - Julie Campbell Tatham & Kathryn Kenny
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Corporate Espionage, Detective Noir, F/M, Femme Fatale, Period Typical Attitudes, Pregnancy shaming, WWII AU, Walk Into A Bar, arm-wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29733108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: Trixie has to be a diversion for Jupiter while he locates missing evidence. It's going to take more than charm...it's going to require some arm-twisting.
Relationships: Trixie Belden/Jupiter Jones | Justus Jonas
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5
Collections: Bite Sized Bits of Fic from 2021





	Feminine and Not-So-Feminine Wiles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brumeier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/gifts).



The waterfront bar is a real dive. Trixie’s stomach flutters. It’s a long way from the USO canteens she’s frequented so often. Where the USO gatherings are relentlessly wholesome, with music and dancing and a lot of mingling, this place is a lot rowdier.

This is a harder crowd; the patrons here are knocking back alcohol, playing pool, and the mingling is considerably louder and saltier than the mostly good-natured visitors to the USO.

“I feel overdressed,” Trixie says wryly to her escort. “That’s a first.”

Jupiter Jones grins, looking almost boyish. “You look terrific,” he tells her. “Don’t worry, as soon as we get those plans back, we’ll go some place respectable and have a real night on the town.”

“First we have to find Kovacs. You don’t think he’s laying low on that ship, do you?”

“They’re sailing with the tide, so we’ve got hours. I’m willing to bet Kovacs is spending his last evening ashore at some bar close by.” Jupe scans the smoky room, looking for their quarry. “If not here, somewhere near the port. Count on it.”

Trixie nods. Jupiter is a private investigator, and he’s got good instincts for this kind of thing. Watching him in action fascinates her--he’s so brainy! And brawny, she admits, admiring his solid physique as they zig-zag through the bar. 

Tonight, they’re trying to retrieve stolen documents for Jupe’s client, a defense contractor for radar units. The trail of the suspected thief has led them here, but they also know he’s shipping out as part of a freighter convoy in the morning. Scuttlebutt has it that the eventual destination is the Alaskan territory. Jupe suspects the thief plans to cross the Bering Strait and take the plans with him to Russia.

“But the Russians are our allies,” Trixie pointed out when he’d shared his theory with her. “It’s not like they’re an Axis power.”

His dark brows drew together and he shook his head. “A lot of people think that the enemy of their enemy is their friend. In this case, Russia is fighting Germany out of self-interest. Meanwhile, they consider democracy to be every bit as dangerous to their Communist ideals as fascism. Once they’re no longer concerned with Hitler, who’s to say they won’t turn on us? They could study those plans--reverse-engineer a way to distort or block our radar signals--that would be a strategic disaster.”

Her blue eyes widened, and she breathed, “We can’t let that happen!” Then she catches sight of the man they're looking for. “There he is! Arm-wrestling that other guy! And if he’s doing that, he’s not paying close attention to his duffel--grab it and we’ll have those plans back before you can say ‘boo’. I’ll distract him while you find those papers..”

When Kovacs pins his opponent's hand to the table, bystanders at the nearby table whoop, but nobody seems inclined to take him on when he calls, “Okay--who’s next?”

Trixie takes a deep breath. “What about me?” she asks, sashaying up to the table with a bright grin.

“You?” Kovacs guffaws. “You wouldn’t last ten seconds, little bit of a thing like you.”

It’s true that Trixie is a petite five-foot-four, but she’s been working as a rivet-setter for over a year now, and she’s considerably stronger than she looks. She’s demurely wrapped in a powder-blue cardigan. A wide red patent leather belt emphasizes her slim figure in a crisp blue and white striped shirtwaist; she looks deceptively harmless.

“Ten seconds?” Trixie fishes in her clutch. “I have five dollars that says I can last at least ten seconds.” He winks at the crowd. She doesn’t produce a bill, but he’s egging on the crowd, 

“Ha! I’ll take your money, same as anybody else’s.” 

Trixie saunters over to the other chair, aware that Jupe is making his way to the other side of the table, getting closer to their objective. She seats herself deliberately, making a show of polishing the surface of the grimy tabletop with a handkerchief. This performance draws snickers from the watching patrons, but Trixie smiles serenely. 

“Who’s going to count for us?” she asks, noting Jupe is in position behind the man across the table. Her partner glances down and shifts, probably above Kovacs’s bag. 

As she expected, Kovacs is focused on her; oblivious of everything else.

One of the men at the next table offers to keep count, and his voice booms out-- “One! Two! Three!”

Arm-wrestling among the factory girls isn’t uncommon. Trixie has had her fair share of bouts, but there’s quite a difference between Kovacs, a burly guy from the defense contractor's loading dock and Beaulah from Texas who works on assembly line 2.

He’s just holding his arm there, making no visible exertion. He isn’t even squeezing her hand. 

Kovacs doesn’t even start trying until the count of eight, and even then, he's not gripping her hand. His biceps flex, but Trixie’s arm stays upright. 

“Ten!” their stentorian scorekeeper bellows, and the next table cheers. Kovacs stares at her in disbelief and puts some muscle into it. Trixie doesn’t give in immediately, it would be too suspicious. At ‘Fourteen!”, she lets him pin her.

Trixie flexes her hand gingerly. Good thing Kovacs has a streak of chivalry.

“Here you go.” He slides the five-spot across the table to her. 

“Dinner money!” she says triumphantly.

“You’re hungry? Ah, no. Can’t have a pretty girl starving, not when I can offer aid and comfort. I’m shipping out in a few hours and I’d be happy for the company.”

Wow. Trixie’s never fancied herself as a femme fatale, but her mark seems smitten. Who knew an industrial thief could be such a softie? Well, it buys her time while Jupe rifles through the bag.

At some point during the arm-wrestling match, he’d ducked down and snatched the bag and she’d briefly glimpsed his distinctive shirt.over near the restrooms before Kovacs discovered she wasn’t quite the powder-puff he’d expected..

“How’d you do it?” Kovacs wants to know after he’s asked the waitress to bring Trixie the Chef’s Special. He’s gazing at her as if he doesn’t know what to think. "Little bit of a thing like you!”

“You mean you don’t recognize me?” Trixie jokes. “I’m Rosie the Riveter. Well, more or less. I work in a factory and it’s not for sissies.” Sliding down one sleeve of her cardigan, Trixie flexes her bicep, which is well-defined in her slim arm.

“So you’re doing doing your part for our fighting forces? Good for you, sister!” 

That’s an oddly patriotic attitude for someone who’s made off with ultra-classified documents. Although the so-called ‘evidence’ is the fact that he’d been in the office where the documents were stored on the day they went missing. He was seen leaving his boarding house with a duffel bag.

Jupe found the cabbie who’d brought him to the port and learned which ship he’d gotten a berth on….

“Are you okay?” He’s leaning forward looking anxious…there’s concern in his brown eyes. “Hey honey!” he bellows across the room. “Can you bring my friend some coffee with that Chef’s Special?

He looks contrite, an unprepossessing fellow, long narrow face, dark hair bristling like a wire brush. “Hey, sorry about that, but you looked a little faint, Rosie. I’m Lenny, by the way.” 

His smile is a little tentative.which bolsters her confidence.

“You’re very kind,” she tells him earnestly. Trixie does earnest very well, having been blessed with wide blue eyes. “And awfully strong!”

It never hurts to say something nice, Mums always said. 

He’s a husky guy, but his flannel shirt is oversize on him--could part of that bulk be a money belt? And how in the world is she going to find out? There’s a jukebox, and depending on what song it is…ugh. 

The Chef’s Special…it’s fishy. Trixie tacks on a brave smile. She’s a waif, she reminds herself. Can’t be picky. There’s a war on….

No. Her nose won’t let that plate’s contents anywhere near her lips. She swallows in revulsion. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“Oh my God--you’re in the family way! A nice girl like you? That a shame. That’s a real shame.”

“No!” Trixie’s outrage isn’t feigned. “Smell that!”

“What kind of chum are you serving here?” He berates their server as she tops up Trixie’s coffee cup. “Bring her a steak. None of this stinking seafood!”

Trixie knows a thing or two. “What kind of steak?” she asks the waitress who is shaking her head and muttering about rationing,. “Did it involve a jockey in a dark alley?”

Lenny guffaws. “Rosie, you’re a hoot! A place like this, though…who the hell knows. Pardon my French--”

“Maybe I could get a sandwich?” Trixie politely asks the young woman in the apron. "A plain old cheese sandwich would be just great.”

“You’re a sweet kid,” Kovacs says. “You sure you’re not in trouble?”

Trixie can feel her whole face getting hot, clear to the roots of her sandy blonde hair. “I think I ate a bad tamale at lunch,” she confides. “Really, I’m not that kind of girl.”

Her heart beats a little faster. Just because she hasn’t done things like that doesn’t mean she hasn’t wondered about them…wondered what it would be like if she and Jupiter--

“So where are you shipping out for?” she inquires, all interest. Is this how Mata Hari did it?

“Going home to Portland. I got a telegram from my sister this afternoon --our dad’s had a stroke,” There are creases in his forehead. “They need me there. And it’s hard to get train priories…I was lucky, I've worked on fishing boats…I know fellas on the docks, they tipped me to the _Gloria Marie_.”

Trixie nods. They’d wondered about that. Because of wartime security, arrivals and departures aren’t being published in the papers any more, so how did Lenny Kovacs turn around and land a berth in mere hours? 

“That’s terrible,” she coos. “You must be terribly worried.”

Lenny sighs gustily. “I’ve been fending for myself since I was fourteen. Times were tough, I had to be tougher. He thought I was old enough to keep my own keep. That was in 1931. I haven’t been back since.”

Trixie’s hackles go up, and it has nothing to do with the grilled cheese sandwich that lands on the table in front of her. She reaches for the sandwich, thinking furiously. It’s a bit of a surprise to find out it’s grilled cheese with pickles. God, did someone hear Lenny ask if she was pregnant? 

Does she believe him? He may be trying to milk her for sympathy. It may even be true, but…she chews the sandwich, which is hot and greasy and absolutely delicious.

Timing. The timing is suspicious. What are the odds of their prime suspect suddenly getting a summons from his estranged family at this specific time? 

She focuses on the sandwich like it’s the first food she’s had in a while, while she regards her assessment of Lenny. He’s sincere, but he’s also bought into the bull she’s been slinging, so there’s that. Not exactly a master criminal….

He sincerely seems to care, though. About her, about his family… If he’s crooked, he’s a better actor than Humphrey Bogart. 

“I was in such a state after that telegram, I didn’t even call my company to let them know I was leaving,” he frets. “Guess I’ll have to send them a ‘Dear John’ letter.” 

Her suspicions ratchet up a notch. It feels like a set-up. 

When she’s polished off the last of the tasty sandwich, Trixie sits up and looks perky. “Maybe we could dance?” she suggests. 

It turns out Lenny’s not wearing a money belt. He’s also ticklish...and a good sport about it.

“Careful, Rosie--I might be tempted to jump ship. You’re a lot more attractive than my dad.”

“You know what you should do?” Trixie says when the song ends. “You should call home. That way you might get to talk to the doctor or at least someone who can tell you how he is. I mean, it would drive me crazy to be stuck on some boat for days and days _not knowing_!”

She puts as much concern as she can into her appeal, and he looks thoughtful. “I never even thought of that,” he admits. “But you’re right. We’re on the party line, somebody’s got to know something.”

A moment later, he’s dropping coins into a pay phone with Trixie hanging discretely over his shoulder.

“Central Exchange,” a voice on the other end bellows.

“Miss Cora? Evening, ma’am…it’s Lenny Kovacs…yes, ma’am, it has been a long time. I was wondering, have you heard anything from home?”

“I’ll connect you,” the local operator says loudly. “Do I look like a newsreel?”

Kovacs looks…vulnerable is the only word for it. He knows he’s going to get bad news, and he’s bracing himself.

“Ma? It’s Lenny--”

“Lenny? Oh, my baby! I just got off the phone with your Aunt Pearl, I thought it was her calling back. How are you? Where are you? I worry about you!”

“How’s Dad?” 

“Oh...oh dearie. You don’t know! He passed in 1938," His mother's voice is clear, "and I never let him forget he turned you out like he did, til the day he died, I reminded him.”

1938! Trixie gasps. The telegram _was_ a phony!

Jupiter catches up to them then. She eases away from the distraught man on the phone. “It wasn’t there, was it?” she asks before jupe has a chance to say anything.

He shakes his head. They edge a couple steps farther away from Lenny. Trixie lowers her voice. 

“It’s not here, either. It’s a set up. Someone sent Lenny a bogus telegram that his father was sick. They’re estranged--turns about his dad died in ‘38. How’s that for suspicious?”

Jupe whistles. “A convenient dupe,” he acknowledges.

“We need to clear Lenny’s name and find the real culprit,” Trixie says, narrowing her eyes. “We’ll have to tell him he’s under suspicion, any why. It’s a good thing he didn’t officially quit his job.”

“As long as he doesn’t get on that ship. Nothing could make him look guiltier. With him under suspicion and out of contact on the high seas, the real guilty party would have free rein to pass those plans on to God knows who.” 

“I guess I don’t have to go to Portland after all,” Lenny says when he finally hangs up the phone. “My old man’s been dead and buried for years. But who the hell sent me that telegram? Why would anybody do something like that? Rosie...who's this guy?”

“Let’s go back to the table,” Trixie suggests. “We need to talk.”

...

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by the idea of wartime wonder-girl Trixie arm-wrestling in a dive bar. I thought it was going to be a lot shorter than this, but to my chagrin, it kind of grew a plot and Trixie had a lot of thinky-thoughts. Whew! Definitely not a drabble!


End file.
